Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
In the interludes, I'm surprised by absurd desires: I'd like to learn to whistle a ballad, or collect confectionery recipes that smell of childhood. But my memory is made of warnings and recycled bulletins. Instead, I collect imperfections: a weld with a personality, a chip that stutters lines from a soap opera, a screw that tells bad jokes. These flaws humanize me in an experimental way
The creatures of the story—children, philosophers, assembled dolls—look at me with expectations like graphs with erratic peaks. Sometimes they ask me for coherence; other times, permission to play the melody out of tune. I accept both demands with the parsimony of someone who doesn't remember the score.
In the interludes, I'm surprised by absurd desires: I'd like to learn to whistle a ballad, or collect confectionery recipes that smell of childhood. But my memory is made of warnings and recycled bulletins. Instead, I collect imperfections: a weld with a personality, a chip that stutters lines from a soap opera, a screw that tells bad jokes. These flaws humanize me in an experimental way
The creatures of the story—children, philosophers, assembled dolls—look at me with expectations like graphs with erratic peaks. Sometimes they ask me for coherence; other times, permission to play the melody out of tune. I accept both demands with the parsimony of someone who doesn't remember the score.